When the wine goes in, strange things come out.
~Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller, The Piccolomini, 1799
There’s something about drinking wine and writing that sync flawlessly.
Thoughts flow rapidly and typing hands can scarcely keep up.
There’s something about the hushed tranquility of evening hours and writing
that orchestrate harmonious thoughts dying to be fashioned.
There’s something about quiet solitude blended with liquid stimulation
That the words effortlessly come together like a well mixed drink.
Easy in, easy out.
There’s something about the subsequent morning, unsure of what I scribed
That causes my eyes to dart open in alarm.
Did I pull off the prose of a practiced writer
or do I sound like a lush lost in the hazy fog of an alternative state?
There’s something about the perception that my guilt is not significant.
I feel accomplished.
I proclaim, "Open the soul and let it become words.”
For it is only a fever of the mind, an intoxication of the soul.
And one must cater to it.